


Runaway Shoes

by TerraCherry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Carl Powers - Freeform, Gen, Teen Sherlock, casefic - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCherry/pseuds/TerraCherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Sherlock Holmes began. Promising swimmer Carl Powers drowns during a school swim tournament and young Sherlock finds something odd about it and decides to investigate. A backstory for events mentioned in Sherlock episode 01x03 The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been cooking in my head for a while. I'm also interested in Sherlock's background and his surely troubled childhood and I just really wanted to write some angsty teen Sherlock. Also, I know basically nothing about British schools (even less how they were in 1989!) or how these sport tourneys were arranged as I'm not from UK, so forgive me. All mistakes and inconsistencies are mine. I hope you enjoy this even a bit.

 

Sherlock’s string of deduction never quite stopped to amaze. He had read so much about the mysterious trainers they had found in 221C Baker Street.

“So, what happened to him?” John asked.

“Something bad. He loved those shoes, remember, he’d never left them filthy. Wouldn’t ever let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets –“

Realisation hit Sherlock as memories flooded in.

“Oh.”

“What?” John asked.

Carl Powers,” he whispered.

 “Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John.”

“What is it?”

“It’s where I began.”

On their way home, Sherlock explained.

“1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament. Drowned in the pool. Tragic accident, you wouldn’t remember, why should you.” Sherlock showed his phone with an old article about the incident open.

“But you remember.”

“Yes.”

“Something fishy about it?”

“Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in papers.”

“You started young, didn’t you?”

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong somewhere and I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

“What?”

“His shoes.”

“What about them?”

“They weren’t there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested. But nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker but there was no sign of his shoes. Until now.”

 

***

 

Sherlock had snatched a chair from one of the reading tables and sat reading a chemistry textbook in an almost hidden corner behind the bookshelves when babble of a small group of boys interrupted him.

“Sorry guys, can’t come tonight, gotta train.”

“You’ve been training like mad, Jamie,” another voice said, clearly a little upset.

“The competition will be tough as hell! There are seriously fast guys coming from other schools.”

“Yeah we know, Jamie,” third voice said, “we’ll be cheering for you by the pool then.”

“Thanks guys.”

“Found the book,” fourth voice announced.

Boys continued chatter about the upcoming sports event and some “mega cool” movie as they left the library.

The sports were all people were talking now. Sherlock sighed. Some big interschool event which he didn’t care to know more of since he wouldn’t be part of it in any way. He went back to his book.

 

The hall was busy with students rushing to the classes, Sherlock among them. Suddenly someone crashed on him, almost making him lose his balance.

“You tattled about us, didn’t you?” The angry voice belonged to a boy named Anthony Miller, two years older than Sherlock. He was a bully and too full of himself. He was showing off his power by making his little interrogation in the middle of the hallway, accompanied by two of his “gangsters”, as they were called behind their backs.

 “What are you talking about?” The classmate of Anthony’s, who had been shoved around and collided with Sherlock, seemed genuinely nonplussed.

An occasional member of his posse, Sherlock recalled.

“I know you were in Mr. Loxley’s office just now!”

“What? No I wasn’t! I barely managed to get here on time from the last lesson.”

“You might want to believe him, he’s clearly been too busy breaking the rules himself,” Sherlock pointed out before he could stop himself.

Oh shit, he thought. His stupid tongue had gotten him in trouble more than once or twice and still he couldn’t control it.

The boys turned their attention now at him. Anthony scanned him with his calculative gaze.

“Is it the too-clever-for-his-own-good freak with a funny name?”

Oh. Thanks Mummy, thought Sherlock sarcastically, you couldn’t choose a normal name like John or something, could you?

Sherlock stayed silent.

“What makes you think that?” The accused switched on offence.

He would never get out of the situation unscathed without saying something, so he explained: “Your hair is moist, your shoes are spotted with mud and you reek of cigarettes, obviously you’ve been smoking outside before the class.”

Awkward silence was more than enough to tell everyone Sherlock had hit the nail on the head.

“Oh I see.” It was all Anthony said at first, eyeing both his classmate and Sherlock.

“Who was it then?” He asked Sherlock, a smug snake’s smile on his face.

Sherlock realised he thought he had been either spying them or someone of his gang had told him something, he really could live without being on the line of fire of Anthony and his gang.

“I don’t know.”

“Really now?”

“Like I said, I don’t know, any idiot can smell the cigarette on him.”

“Well, aren’t we clever?”

“We are. Goodbye.” Sherlock exited the scene swiftly, gritting his teeth. He hated to seem so weak. But there was nothing he could do, he didn’t know what they had been up to and even if he did, using the information would probably just hit him back like a boomerang and get him into even deeper trouble.

“For such a prestigious school there are way too many idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he stomped forward.

He entered the classroom and sat on his seat. Most of the students didn’t pay any attention to him and the couple of arrogant ones gave him their usual “freak” look. He ignored them. He ignored them all.

 

“How was your day?” Mummy walked into the dimly lit kitchen where Sherlock was nibbling a cookie and ruffled Sherlock’s dark curls knowing perfectly well he didn’t like it. It was their little game; Sherlock knew she used it to show her affection but rebelled anyway because it felt childish while she used it also to predict his mood: he usually winced when he was in bad mood. He did that now, trying to avoid her touch. She sat opposite to Sherlock at the table covered with plaid tablecloth.

“Did something happen at school?” She constantly worried about Sherlock; he didn’t let anyone near enough to be a true friend and if she was truly honest, it would require someone patient and forgiving to be his friend or maybe someone like him. She had hoped this school would have someone Sherlock would find a little more than just “tolerable” but it didn’t seem likely.

“Nothing important, Mummy, no one got into trouble.”

“But you’re upset, dear, even I notice that,” she tried. Sometimes Sherlock would just retreat to his shell but now and then he actually let her know what was going on.

“I was called “too-clever-for-his-own-good freak with a funny name”, not exactly breaking news,” he said coldly to stop Mummy from pestering but left out what had caused it.

“Oh baby, don’t let them get you. They are probably just jealous.” She put her hand on his to comfort. He snorted.

“Jealous? Who would envy _me_?”

Her eyes turned sad and she felt a sting of sorrow, and unnecessary guilt of too, in her heart. He was only 13 years old and already so wounded and bitter. It wasn’t right. She knew being a teenager could be hard enough for any kid but people didn’t usually understand Sherlock. Kids especially could be so cruel to their own kind.

“You’re wonderful and fine as you are and if you think my opinion doesn’t count ‘cause I’m your Mummy, some day there will be someone you believe to tell it to you.”

Sherlock found himself oddly lost at words. Mummy loved him, he knew, she also could be an annoyance, as Mummies, and people in general, could be. After all, they were only human. She wasn’t always happy with Sherlock and sometimes he deserved it and sometimes he didn’t care. He felt weird.

“Erm, okay,” was all he could come up with.

She felt she shouldn’t press the matter more right now and instead got up saying: “What about we’ll get takeaway tonight?”

“Yeah,” he replied.


	2. Mystery

The school buzzed with excitement and nervousness as the sports tournament day came. The headmaster held his cheer speech and then everyone hurried to wherever they needed or wanted to be.

Sherlock didn’t particularly want to be anywhere. Maybe he’d slip to the library, the librarians wouldn’t tell about him, they knew he liked it there and they usually stayed on the neutral ground as long as students behaved themselves.

“Hey Sherlock, are you going to the pool? You like swimming, right?” One of his classmates, George Huffington, stopped to ask. He was one of the more tolerable people at his class, short, calm and fairly smart. His puffy eyes indicated he hadn’t sleep very well last night, probably because of the lingering excitement of the sports day since George was in the swim team and while he didn’t take part in the tourney himself, he had friends who did.

“I don’t care about the competition.”

“Okay, see ya around then.”

He took the course to the library. At the door he realised the library might be closed today because there were no classes. Maybe he would just go home. Yeah, that sounded like an idea, no one would miss him anyway.

 

The next morning was cloudy and grey. Sherlock dragged himself to the kitchen and put two slices of bread in the toaster and took out the jam and juice. Mummy was sipping her coffee (the third cup by now judging by the tiny amount of coffee left in the coffee maker) and browsing the newspaper.

“Oh dear!” She all of a sudden cried.

“What’s it?”

“That’s sad,” she only said. Sherlock peeked over her shoulder. The headline shouted about tragic swimming accident. He quickly skimmed through the piece of news. Some kid called Carl Powers had died at the swimming tournament, the very same event some kids from Sherlock’s school had taken part.

“There were people from your school there too, weren’t there?”

“Yeah.” He read the short article properly.

“Promising young swimmer champion from Brighton” the news called Carl Powers. He had had a seizure during his round but when the lifeguards pulled him out of water it was already too late for him: he was dead.

“Your toast is ready,” Mummy remarked.

“Mmh.”

 

Carl Powers was the hot topic at the school, everyone was talking about him and the swimming tournament.

“It was horrible,” someone gasped, “I was there. The start of their race was heated! They were on the second lap when Powers suddenly slowed down. People gasped. It was all splashes and at first no one knew what was going on, the other contestants kept on swimming. Then, a sharp whistle! Everyone fell silent and unmoving except the lifeguards who dove for Powers. They pulled him to the surface but he was gone. Then everyone started at the same time, it was a chaos!”

Drama group kid, no doubt.

Sherlock entered the classroom where the air was heavy with the same gossip.

“I heard it was an epilepsy attack,” someone announced.

“Do you think he would’ve been a champ if he had epilepsy?” Another student mocked.

“I feel bad, what if it would’ve been someone of our mates?”

“Well, think of his family.”

“Poor guy.”

“How can someone perfectly healthy just have a fit and drown?”

 

Sherlock didn’t go home after the last lesson. This sudden drowning case had piqued his interest so he headed for the public library. The library was cool and calm as Sherlock went for the newspapers. There were only a few patrons reading. He started to browse through the available papers.

There were many pieces of Carl Powers news. The first paper had a headline “Tragic Carl dies” in huge letters. There was a picture of him in suit, hands in pockets; he was tall, dark haired and lean hence his swimming hobby. Almost every news were essentially the same: the cause of death drowning after a sudden seizure in the pool, no exact reason for it made known yet but he hadn’t suffered epilepsy, was pride of his age group in swimming team and family of father, mother and a sister left to mourn him. One paper mentioned no crime was suspected; it was just an unlucky accident. Other had detailed feature about him and his last day.

“’...He left his clothes, shoes and bag in his locker and made himself ready for his big race, aiming for nothing less than a shining victory.’ A bit dramatic, are we?” Sherlock mumbled but read the wordy, decorated article anyway.

“’His parents came afterwards to collect his things as the last memento of their departed son.’ Ugh, rubbish.” He swiped the paper aside and took the next one.

The news stated the basic facts and featured a picture of Powers’ parents at the pool with a caption: “Grief-struck Powers family. ‘We still haven’t quite realised he’s really gone. We are overwhelmed with sadness,’ comments Powers’ mother.” There was also a photo of Carl, in training suit and shoes. They looked expensive, good quality; the family was probably rich. Sherlock also noted he had big hands and feet. The caption said: “Carl on the morning of his ill-ended tournament day.”

 

Why was he reading these? This kind of stuff was in the news every day, accidents happened all around. He stretched and ran his long fingers through his unruly hair.

Something was nagging at the corner of his mind and he couldn’t quite make himself leave the reading room yet and shuffled through the articles again.

“Wait a minute...”

He looked again at the paper that had mentioned it was not a crime.

“’...Powers’ shoes had gone missing.’”

Sherlock pondered about this bit of information. It was of course added in the report only as an extra emotional tidbit, people loved tearjerker stories, but could there be connection between the shoes and the death? Who would steal only shoes anyway? There could’ve been money or other valuable things in Powers’ bag, why wasn’t it taken?

To kill a kid for trainers, that sounded quite absurd. But the world was crazy and the rising enthusiasm in him begged to dig deeper into this. Sherlock hadn’t had anything this interesting come across him in ages! Maybe it was nothing. But he could look into it a little more, couldn’t he?


	3. Thrill

The pool was alive with swimmers, one could never guess what had happened here. The smell of chlorine stung Sherlock’s nose as he entered the pool area.

He went to the lifeguards’ booth to ask some questions.

“Hello,” Sherlock started.

“Hello, is there something you need?” The muscular brown haired youngish lifeguard, whose name badge said his name was Marc, greeted. Lifeguards were aspiring to be extra sharp today; the booth had a lot of old filled crossword puzzles lying on the table but not a single one from this week, likely because of the tournament and today’s pressure of not letting any more kids drown.

“I was wondering... the other day when Carl Powers died, who was on lifeguard duty?”

Marc’s expression changed to sad.

“Jake, Owen and Santos. I was on the evening shift.”

“Is any of them here today?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, Owen is, that’s him,” Marc pointed a bald lifeguard on the other side of the pool.

“Okay, thanks.”

Sherlock went to speak with Owen.

“Hello, I’m Sherlock. Marc there said you were here when Carl Powers died.”

Owen nodded with serious face.

“Was he your friend?” He asked.

“A friend from Brighton knew him,” Sherlock said. Of course that was a lie but maybe he’d rather tell something to a sort of acquaintance than a total stranger.

“I’m sorry. It was really quick; he was beyond help when we pulled him out of water.”

“There wasn’t anything odd about him?”

“Whaddaya mean? No. He had a fit and drowned, sadly.”

“Um, good. I guess.”

Owen blinked. Wrong answer, Sherlock cringed.

“It can be a shock, talk to your parents or school nurse if it bothers ya, okay?” Owen scanned him from head to toe. Sherlock changed weight from leg to another, uneasy.

“Um, yeah. I heard his shoes weren’t anywhere to be found,” Sherlock changed the subject.

“His shoes? Things get misplaced here often. There’s a lost and found box, maybe they are there. Or someone could’ve just nicked ‘em.”

“Yeah, just wondering. I better be off,” Sherlock felt he wouldn’t get anything more out of Owen.

“Take care kiddo, yeah?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Sherlock hurried away.

 

He sat down to think in the brightly lit, white and blue lounge. He pressed his palms together and placed his chin upon the fingertips. He now wished he had gone to watch the swimming competition even though it was unlikely he would have known about the shoes at that point anyway. If his parents lived in London, he could go talk to them. Or would that be too odd? But they didn’t, so he couldn’t be in touch with them.

A janitor! Or cleaners! Maybe they could tell Sherlock something. What should he ask? Would have anyone noticed anything? Sherlock sighed, people missed so much, like they were horses with winkers. But it was as good as any choice so he got up and went to the desk.

“Hello, how may I help?” A petite blonde woman asked politely.

“I need to talk to a janitor.”

“What is it?” The lady took a pen and paper to hint she could just take a note.

“Something about the lockers, I’d rather ask myself,” Sherlock said and added as an afterthought: “please.”

“Okay. Janitor’s office is through there and to the right.” She showed a corridor with her hand.

Sherlock went to the door which was ajar and knocked while he peeked in. The janitor was having a coffee break in his messy office.

“Hi, my name’s Sherlock Holmes, I have a question. Or a few.”

The chubby janitor, whose name badge said Mr. Bell, frowned.

“It’s about Carl Powers, were you at work yesterday?”

“Yeah, I was. I don’t know much about it, you can read the papers boy.” Mr. Bell wasn’t very cooperative and made a shooing gesture with his hand.

“I have read them. And I actually want to know about his locker and shoes.” Sherlock was going to get some answers.

“Hmm?”

“They said his shoes were missing. I wondered if there was anything odd about his locker.”

“Funny you ask that.” Mr. Bell took a gulp of his coffee.

Oh yes, maybe now we are getting somewhere! Sherlock tried to hide his zeal.

“Oh?”

“The police picked up his stuff and I noticed the lock was faulty. Had a little trouble getting it open. We have a couple of other lockers in need of lock replacement too, people just don’t have any respect for public property, putting whatever inside when they lost the keys or just to give us a headache,” Mr. Bell ranted. His grumpy appearance with lack of office’s upkeep and frequent coffee breaks (judging by the worn looks of his often used coffee maker and cup and numerous coffee stains and empty coffee packages on the table) suggested he was tired of his job.

“It was lock picked?” Sherlock asked as the thought occurred to him.

“I dunno, the lock just didn’t want to open at first. But hey, leave it be, no one’s missing those shoes anymore anyway. Bye.” He waved his hand again, stating Sherlock should go. Now.

Sherlock left the office and contemplated the next move. He didn’t know which locker it was and if it could tell anything to him. He put it in the list on his mind to read about lock picking. He should head home, he doubted he’d get more information from here.

 

“Where have you been?” Mummy asked when Sherlock got home. She knew Sherlock sometimes just went wandering around and had had to accommodate herself to it, after much worried arguing with him. He gave her a little grin which made her rise her right eyebrow in question.

“Just visited some place,” he answered.

“Oh, where?”

Sherlock dropped his smile. Damn.

“Nowhere special.”

“I hope you behaved yourself.” Mummy was giving him now her warning look.

“Don’t worry.” Sherlock waved his hand and slipped away.

“Mycroft is coming over on weekend, by the way,” she said after him.

Sherlock only shrugged and nodded.

One never knew how his brother’s visits from university turned out to be. Sometimes he and Sherlock ended up glaring each other icily for the whole weekend, sometimes they argued endlessly and sometimes they even had interesting conversations. Mycroft had annoying habit of wanting to have all strings in his hands, being in control, and Sherlock didn’t want to be ordered around, while Mycroft was irritated by Sherlock’s too quick remarks and haughty attitude. Mummy thought Mycroft wasn’t quite used to it yet that Sherlock wasn’t anymore a little boy who blindly looked up to his big brother.

 

Sherlock went to his room and threw himself on the unmade bed.

The facts: Carl Powers had drown, after having a seizure in water. His shoes were missing. Only his shoes. His locker’s lock had been faulty.

Not enough information. He would need to know about Carl’s friends and possible enemies to even suspect someone. Problem was they were all in Brighton (he could take a train or a bus there, the news had mentioned Carl’s school) and he didn’t know his friends (he could ask which class he had been on once he was at the school) and it meant he had to skip a school day (and come up with some good excuses). But that didn’t guarantee people would tell him anything. He wished he was older so people might for once take him seriously.

Alright. What about the swim team of Sherlock’s school? They might know something about Carl, they must have been at the same tournaments before. Yes, he would ask around tomorrow.


	4. Legwork

Before the first class on the next day, Sherlock stopped George Huffington.

“Hey George, you know people in the swim team, right?” Sherlock went straight to the point.

“Yeah, from the other classes. Kit Livingston and Leo Giullia, why?”

“I need to know something, could you point them out for me?”

“Well, that’s easy since Kit is right there.” George referred to a slim black boy talking to a classmate.

“Ok, thanks.”

Sherlock marched to Kit and interrupted his chatter with his buddies.

“Hey, George there mentioned you are in the swim team.”

“Yeah, so?” Kit looked at him puzzled. “Who are you?”

“Sherlock from George’s class.”

Kit’s eyes flashed as he recognized him. Sherlock ignored his sigh.

“So, what do you know about Carl Powers?” He asked bluntly.

“The kid who died? Nothing really,” Kit shrugged and made a big show of appearing lax and cool, trying, and succeeding, to impress his classmates. He wanted the cool dude’s reputation.

“Oh,” Sherlock couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Do you know anyone who might’ve known him?”

“Jamie Granger, maybe.”

“Great! Where could I find him?”

“Jamie’s on 1-B, ask around.” Kit was done and turned his back at Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock found Jamie, he realised it was the same Jamie who he had overhead in the library some days before the tournament.

“Carl Powers? Yeah, I met him a few times, on camps and tourneys.” Jamie said scratching his chin.

“Did he have friends from his school in the team?”

“I think so yeah, at least a guy named Peregrine.”

 “You don’t remember his surname?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Do you know if Carl had any enemies?”

“Enemies?” Jamie mocked. He kept scratching his arm which had redder areas around the crook. Swimmers often suffered number of skin problems but he seemed not to be fighting against it much.

“Well, anyone who might’ve not been so thrilled about Carl. Or was jealous of him, that sort of stuff,” Sherlock specified.

“He was a really good swimmer, pretty good guy in general but a little proud. Played a prank or two with his mates on training camps but so did half of the kids anyway.”

“Do you think that may have got someone angry?”

“Hey, I don’t know, doubt it. Why are you so interested anyway?” Jamie’s patience was growing thin.

“I just am.” Sherlock left Jamie to puzzle over his motives.

“With that amount of scratching your skin will peel off soon,” he added as he walked away.

He heard Jamie utter something disapproving.

Why was it so hard to get information from people? But now he had a clue: this Peregrine was sure to know more.

 

Brighton. He needed to get to Brighton. He sat at the kitchen table deep in thoughts.

“Sherlock, you are only picking your food,” Mummy remarked.

“I’m not hungry.” He pushed the plate aside.

“You should eat; you’re already thin enough to hide behind a lamp post.”

“Mummy.”

“Sherlock.”

The battle of wills was won by Mummy and the defeated Sherlock pulled his plate back and ate some of the mashed potatoes and fish.

“Good boy.”

“Mummy, stop it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. She only grinned back. Sherlock left her to clean the table and stealthy grabbed a map from the sitting room bookshelf on his way to his room. Just a little planning and he would make a trip to Brighton tomorrow. Content, he took his violin and started to play a bombastic Bach piece.

 

Here he was, in Brighton, chasing vague clues when he was supposed to be at school, studying history and English and math and whatnot. But he didn’t hesitate to admit that this was much more exciting. He grinned. Mummy thought of course he was at school and after that studying in the library and the school would get a nicely faked sick notice.

He was standing in front of impressive school building. He entered the hall and examined the interior and the students. A little group of girls chit-chatted nearby and Sherlock proceeded to ask them about Carl’s class.

“Who are you?” A tall brunette girl, the leader of the group obviously, asked.

“An acquaintance. I got to speak with his friends.” Sherlock tried to be convincing enough and hoped they wouldn’t be asking more details.

“Alright, whatever.” She told him the class.

He would now need to figure out where Carl’s class was having a lesson now. He could ask from –

“Lucky!” He exclaimed when he noticed the timetables were pinned on the bulletin board. After a quick check, he moved forward to find the classroom.

 

Sherlock waited for the lesson to end, he read a book and tried to look like he belonged. No one minded him. The bell rang, the classroom door opened and he rushed to stop the first person to emerge.

“Quick, tell me, who’s Peregrine?”

The poor girl was so astonished she didn’t ask any questions and pointed out a slouched form walking towards the proximate classroom.

“Hello.” Sherlock tapped Peregrine’s shoulder. He was a ginger haired, heavily freckled pale boy who had an expression of a lost puppy. He hadn’t bothered to wash or change his uniform shirt; it had yesterday’s ketchup and mayonnaise on it, possibly from a lunch burger.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. You’re Peregrine, Carl Powers’ friend, correct?” He extended his hand but Peregrine didn’t shake it, he just blinked.

“Umm, yes, I am.” He looked sad.

“I’d like to speak with you about him a little.” Sherlock tried not to scare this one away, he was after all the best source of information he had been able to reach.

“Why? And who are you?”

Damn, this “who are you” business was problematic.

“Look, I’m from London, I’m sort of investigating this... matter.” Sherlock looked warily around. There were some kids listening to their conversation, intrigued by a strange boy asking about recently died mate. If any of them had anything to do with the case, it would be better to act cautiously.

“I just want to know a few things, could we speak in peace?”

Peregrine gave in and led Sherlock away from the curious ears.

 

The other students dispersed when there was no more show to see. A figure stepped from the shadow of a pillar when Peregrine had passed by with the stranger. He followed their steps with hazel eyes.

“Who was that?” Someone asked him.

“Somebody called Sherlock Holmes,” he simply replied.

“What does he want with Perry?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. But he did. He wasn’t a tiny bit worried though.

 

“Be quick please,” Peregrine said.

“Do you know Carl’s shoes disappeared from his locker during the tournament?” Sherlock started. He got a frown as answer.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, they did.”

“So?”

“Was there someone who might’ve been jealous of Carl or angry with him?”

Peregrine frowned some more.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Anyone? I heard he was part of pranks on swim camps,” Sherlock prodded.

“If someone bore a grudge, I don’t know. And I don’t – didn’t know him that well, he was so dedicated to swimming and I quit that last year.”

Peregrine shifted weight from a leg to another.

“Why are you asking that?” He demanded.

“His shoes bother me,” Sherlock said, “or lack of.”

“So you think someone killed him for his shoes?” Peregrine snorted. “You’re crazy.”

“No.” Sherlock’s face lit up when it hit him. He went on with a speed of light: “Indeed, who would kill for simple trainers in such circumstances? Kid’s trainers even. More importantly, _only_ for trainers since nothing else was missing from his locker. If a thief had been in a hurry, it would’ve been much more logical to take his bag. No. Maybe the trainers are evidence. Or a trophy of the kill.”

Yes, yes, that might be it!

“That’s a bit farfetched.”

“Were you surprised when you heard how Carl had died?” Sherlock snapped.

“What? Well... yes. He was healthy as a horse,” he said but added, “but it can happen to anyone.”

“Of course it can, the odds aren’t just that high,” Sherlock pondered aloud.

“Why are you “investigating” this anyway, you didn’t even know him?”

“Like I said, the shoes bothered me.”

“That’s it?!” Peregrine cried. “You are weird.”

“Whatever.”

“Are we done? My class starts soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye.”


	5. Fall

Back in the rainy London Sherlock’s mood see-sawed with gloomy like the weather and impatiently enthusiastic. He had run into a sort of dead end but he also had a theory. There was another thing he hadn’t thought before: the autopsy. What if it would reveal something?

“Hello Sherlock. There’s food in the fridge, help yourself,” Mummy greeted when he arrived home.

“Okay.”

As he moved his food around the plate in thought, he decided that it was time to go to the police. They could continue with the matter. And they could get the autopsy results in their hands too, something Sherlock couldn’t, unless it happened to be something big and papers would write about it.

 

After school, Sherlock marched determinedly to the police.

“Good day, how may I help you?” Kind-looking lady asked at the desk.

“I’d like to report about possible murder,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. The lady was probably heard of everything and beyond since she didn’t flinch at his statement despite his young age. She just raised her eyebrow a little and asked his name and told to wait for a moment in the lounge. Sherlock sat down. Soon he was directed to an officer.

“Hello, my name is DI Jackson,” he shook hands with Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You said you had a murder to report.” He took a pen and a notebook.

“It’s about Carl Powers, the swimmer kid who drowned during the school tournament,” Sherlock started.

“What about him?”

“I think there’s something odd about his death.” Sherlock told DI Jackson everything he had found out and what he thought about it.

“I think you should have a chat with Powers’ swim team and his parents, I couldn’t do that,” he concluded.

DI Jackson was snapping his pen against the notebook, looking at Sherlock with undecided expression.

“There isn’t much odd in this, I think,” he said carefully.

“No odd? Why would a thief steal trainers of all things? The bag had to be more valuable and would’ve been easier to either sell or keep, plus the possible money, a watch and other things. If you were a thief who went through the trouble of lock picking a locker during a sport event, people going back and forth, would you take only the shoes? If thief hadn’t picked it, he would’ve needed the key. Who had the key? Probably a friend or the coach. It’s easy to investigate. Any which way he got it open, the lockers aren’t that big, thief would’ve seen the continents with one glance and making a decision what to take would take a split second. There’s definitely something fishy about it,” Sherlock shot without drawing breath in between.

DI Jackson looked a tiny bit impressed but sobered then.

“People aren’t always logical.”

“What about the autopsy results?” Sherlock challenged.

“I can check them but if there was something weird, the investigation would be in motion,” DI Jackson replied.

“Now?”

“I’ll make a call, wait here.”

DI Jackson came back to impatient Sherlock soon.

“Well?”

“There was nothing unusual found in autopsy, it was a natural seizure which led to drowning.”

Sherlock hung his head.

“But the shoes...” He mumbled.

“It’s probably just a coincidence, the thief maybe panicked or maybe Powers had left his shoes outside locker and someone took them there.”

“You won’t look into it?” Sherlock asked defeated.

“We have a lot of work, there’s no resources to track down shoes for a case that isn’t even a case since the death was natural,” DI Jackson explained.

Sherlock didn’t say a word. Why couldn’t they even check some people?

“You did right to come to voice your concerns but isn’t it better there was no crime involved, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t get too sucked in the detective novels,” DI Jackson winked.

“I don’t even read them.”

“Alright. Do you want me to phone your parents or do you know your way home?”

“Of course I know my way home.” Sherlock got up and marched theatrically out.

 

“Hello baby.” Mummy was brushing her middle-length dark hair in front of hall mirror when Sherlock stormed back home.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine – people are idiots.”

Sherlock went straight to his room and Mummy left him alone, she knew when he wanted his absolute privacy. Soon angry screeching from violin filled the house; Sherlock wasn’t even playing anything, just torturing the strings to create noise. Then he changed to melancholic sonatas and concerto tunes from Prokofiev and Mendelssohn and played them until even Mummy hoped there was better soundproofing.

 

The weekend came with sunshine, and Mycroft in his clever suit.

“Hello Mother,” Mycroft said with his silkiest voice and gave Mummy’s hands a light squeeze.

“Oh c’mere,” Mummy said and hugged Mycroft tight.

“Hello Sherlock,” he greeted his little brother.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock gave him a nod.

“I hope you’re not planning to put those in test.” Mycroft referred to the book about poisons which Sherlock was reading.

“Who knows?” Sherlock said with a serious face. Mycroft flashed a mock smile at him.

“Mycroft, tell us how you are.” Mummy sat down in an armchair while Mycroft occupied the other one and described some of his latest projects and recalled happenings at university.

 

After dinner Mycroft knocked on Sherlock’s door and Sherlock let him in.

“What’s up? Mummy has been worried about you but you of course knew that,” Mycroft said while sitting on the edge of Sherlock’s bed where he sat plucking his violin’s strings.

“That’ll be the day when Mummy doesn’t worry about me,” Sherlock agreed.

“Is there a reason for her to worry this time?”

“People are still idiots but I’m fine.”

“But?”

Mycroft was too good at hearing unsaid words.

“But I’m frustrated because people don’t believe me.”

“What is it?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Should he tell Mycroft? He might actually help if he thought Sherlock was onto something. Or laugh at him. He decided to tell him.

“There was this swimmer kid who died...”

He told Mycroft the same he had told to the police officer.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Busy for nothing,” Sherlock remarked bitterly.

“And it’s probably just that: nothing,” Mycroft stated.

Oh. So he didn’t believe Sherlock either.

“Nothing: the word of the day. Thanks for _nothing_ , Mycroft. You can leave my room now. At least I had fun.”

“Fun?” The word stopped Mycroft. It was a word Sherlock rarely used to describe anything anymore. Things were enjoyable, interesting, satisfactory, pleasant, fascinating or non-boring but not fun.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe being a detective suits you better than being a pirate,” Mycroft smiled and left the room.

 

***

 

**Several days earlier, elsewhere:**

 

“He wants to get rid of him.”

“That can be arranged.”

“He destroyed his fucking business and now he’s in trouble.”

“Mmh.”

“No one will trace it to us, for sure?”

“I’m good. I’m the best.”

“So they say.”

“Let’s discuss business then. Don’t you think the tournament would be just fantastic stage for his fall?”


End file.
